


quicksand jesus

by inkk



Category: Guns N' Roses, Mötley Crüe, Skid Row (US Band)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe, Character Death, Drug Use, Friendship, Hitchhiking, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Running Away, think: slow oblivion, think: the uncompromising permanence of change, think: what happened to make you this way ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: In the summer of 1979, Axl makes it out of Indiana.





	quicksand jesus

**Author's Note:**

> i present to you: the least canonically-accurate guns n roses fic in existence! complete with one (1) stubborn runaway, a troubled past and a cross-country hitchhiking extravaganza.  
-  
title from the skid row song even though it's not that good. also, massive shoutout to my partner in crime [ShadesinBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadesinBlue/pseuds/ShadesinBlue) for the beta help (and gratuitous encouragement)! ♥️  
...aaand while we're at it, let's just pretend this didn't take me eleven months from start to finish ;-)
> 
> bonus:  
[gorgeous fan art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706990) courtesy of [Borax_isme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borax_isme/pseuds/Borax_isme) ♥️

+

In the summer of 1979, Axl almost makes it out of Indiana.

He leaves Lafayette with nothing but the clothes on his back, the shoes on his feet and a pocketful of money reluctantly rustled up from a venture in lawn-mowing, and only makes it a meager half day of walking and hitchhiking before the young couple he’s been driving with decide they’ve had enough of him.

They end up leaving him a few scarce miles from the border of Kentucky, just a little ways past some titchy settlement called Eureka. There’s a gas station a ways off in the distance and not much else.

“You’re a good kid,” the girl says, a hint of apology in her voice as they drop him off at the side of the gravel road. She must be nineteen or twenty at most, with pretty yellow hair and a few pimples on the right side of her face. The boyfriend doesn’t say anything at all as Axl climbs out into the blazing afternoon.

He doesn’t bother to watch the cloud of dust kicked up under the wheels of their little blue van as it speeds away. Instead, he turns and starts walking in the direction of the gas station.

A soft tinkle announces his arrival as Axl walks into the small building. He casts a glance around at the scuffed white linoleum floor, the two rows of rickety shelves holding toiletries and snacks and canned food, and finally, the thin, weedy-looking kid doing a crossword behind the counter. The air seems thick and sluggish when he speaks. 

“You hirin’?”

The kid looks up. His eyes are shifty, flicking around between the shelves from under his ratty brown hair, a firm set to his pointed chin. “No.”

“Oh.” Axl stares him down, taking in the white and blue striped button-down uniform shirt, the knobs of his wrists, the name tag that’s obviously had the name scratched off and I-Z-Z-Y penned overtop in thick black marker. “You sure?”

“We have all the help we need.”

“I could clean the bathrooms,” Axl stubbornly insists, refusing to back down. “Or— Or wash windows, or somethin’. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”

The boy behind the counter looks at him for a long moment, clearly unimpressed as he takes in Axl’s bedraggled appearance; he’s flushed and a little sweaty from walking along the road in the hot afternoon sun, muddy-green eyes sparking under a mop of fluffy copper hair that’s clearly the result of a few missed haircuts. Axl tries to calm the minute swell of irritation triggered by his impassive gaze.

“Look, man, can I at least use your phone, then?” Axl stalls. As he speaks, he realizes that even if the kid says yes, there’s no one for him to call.

The boy just stares for a second, then directs his gaze back down at his tattered crossword book. “It’s my uncle’s place,” he finally relents, but his tone is still guarded as he clicks his pen and taps it against the page in a gesture of false nonchalance. “He’s out back splitting firewood. Go talk to him, if you wanna work so bad.”

Axl does.

The uncle in question turns out to be a tall, wiry man with silver stubble, a receding hairline and a penchant for chewing tobacco - a mean sonofabitch on all accounts. Axl knows the type. It takes him ten minutes to pester the man into a reluctant form of employment.

“You can clean,” the uncle grunts. “Buck-fifty an hour. I want the bathroom, floors, windows, walls, everythin’. Some retilin’. Sink needs fixin’, too. You can sleep in the store room. When August is up, you’re gone. Clear?”

Axl nods. It’s more than a full dollar below minimum wage, but they both know he’s in no position to protest.

The man’s face twitches, and he spits in the dirt without averting his rheumy eyes. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Axl.”

With a palpable air of disapproval, the uncle grunts again and hefts the axe. “Get my no-good lazy fucker of a nephew in there to tell you what to do,” he cocks his head towards the store. “And mark my words, pretty boy, if I catch you stealin’, you’ll be lucky to make it to the nearest farm alive.”

Axl clenches his jaw and nods again. “Understood.”

The man turns his sweaty, crooked back. He lifts the axe and brings it down in one hard stroke that cleaves the waiting log in two. By the time he’s repeating the action for a second time, Axl is already back inside.

“I got the job,” he tells the kid behind the counter.

The nephew looks up, regarding him with the same kind of wary suspicion one might typically afford to a stray animal. “Yeah?”

Axl juts his chin a little. “Yeah.”

The boy gives a small, gruff nod, the exaggeratedly masculine gesture appearing foreign and out of place against the backdrop of his willowy frame. “I’m Izzy,” he finally says.

“Axl.”

“I guess I’ll show you where we keep the supplies.”

Axl learns the ropes quickly after the first day. His job is simple enough: wake up at six A.M. to open the store with Izzy, start cleaning by seven, work until twelve-thirty, take a half-hour break and then clean and do odd jobs again from one until seven, at which point he’s allotted another half-hour for dinner. After that, he’s free to do whatever he wants, as long as the store stays open until ten or eleven P.M. to receive the last round of truckers coming through.

Thankfully, while the uncle makes a point of prowling around the store and cussing his nephew out at every opportunity, he remains surprisingly absent for the most part of the day.

“Supply trips,” Izzy offers when Axl asks on the fourth day, and then averts his eyes back down to where he’s stocking the back shelf with cans of tomato soup, bony fingers twitching.

Axl pretends not to notice when the uncle comes back stumbling and slurring hate in Izzy’s direction. He always makes sure to make himself scarce when the yelling starts, but there’s no way of escaping the hollow look that lingers in Izzy’s eyes for hours afterwards.

“He calls you Jeffrey,” Axl remarks — once, and only once. They’re doing inventory on Sunday night, Izzy counting everything in the store while Axl jots it down in blue pen on an ancient, curling notepad.

Izzy pauses, shoulders stiffening where his back is turned. “Don’t call me that.”

There’s a second of unease before Axl musters enough false casualness to say, “Okay.” He reflexively wants to offer something more — something along the lines of _you don’t have to tell me_, or maybe _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_. Something to say _it’s okay. I know what it’s like to carry a name that doesn’t belong to you_. But his mouth doesn’t open, so he leaves it, and the two of them fall back into silence.

“Thirteen,” Izzy announces as he finishes counting the stack of disposable razors. Axl obediently writes it down. They shuffle a few steps over to start on the next item.

“Why don’t you leave?” Axl asks.

It’s seven-thirty at night, and the two boys are sitting outside on the roof of the firewood shed as the mid-August sun casts them in a golden glow one last time before it falls. They’ve been trading cigarettes back and forth for while, but the pack ran out a half hour ago and Izzy is afraid his uncle will notice if he nicks another, so they’ll have to wait until the next shipment comes to get more.

The silence stretches between them for a long moment before Izzy half-shrugs, thin shoulders hunching miserably. “Can’t,” he says simply. “My uncle— He’s the only one who would take me. I don’t have anywhere else left.” And then, so quiet it’s almost an exhale, “I don’t have anyone else.”

He looks for all the world as if he’s about to disappear into the billowy fabric of his starched uniform. Axl feels a tug of directionless remorse in his chest when he hears himself offer, “You could come with me.” 

The words feel good on his tongue, so he repeats them, this time with conviction: “You could come with me, too. We could get out of here together. I don’t have much money, but I only have two weeks left, we could—…” He stops, trailing off.

Izzy nods and ducks his head, the pink tinge of a sunburn tracing his cheeks, his neck, the bridge of his pointed nose. “I guess,” he says.

The answer is clear enough.

Axl asks again two weeks later all the same.

It’s nine P.M. this time, and they’re smoking beside the empty ice box to the left of the front doors while keeping a sharp eye for approaching headlights; the uncle will be back soon, and he and Izzy aren’t on good terms after the fight they had this morning.

(Axl hadn’t asked what it was about. He heard his name on Izzy’s lips and the name _Catherine_ from the uncle, but didn’t stay to eavesdrop further.)

He’s been here around a month and a half, counting down the days as they pass in a haze of muggy heat and the frantic sound of crickets chirping from the neighbouring fields. He knows time’s almost up. So he asks, once more.

“I can’t,” Izzy says. “I want to, but I can’t. I can’t leave him, I don’t—…”

Neither boy speaks for a second as the parched, dusty wind blows between them, and then Axl finally says, “Yeah.” He grinds his cigarette out on the side of the building and drops it into the gravel between his shoes. “‘S’okay. I get it.”

And he does; maybe a little too well.

They head back inside.

That night, Axl stuffs all of the money he’s been hoarding in the pockets of his warmest jacket, grabs an expired Kit-Kat and a pack of cigarettes off the shelf, then walks away into the looming expanse of the flat roads stretching out before him.

The summer’s almost over.

A trucker picks him up at two in the morning, six miles west from the gas station, and asks which direction he’s headed. Axl says, “I dunno. How far can you take me?”

The bearded man takes him aboard, and they’re off. A faint, tired flicker of victory registers as they finally cross the bridge over the Ohio River.

The sky feels heavy. It’s the summer of 1979, and for the first time in his life, Axl has made it out of Indiana.

He ends up catching a ride the rest of the way to Oklahoma, looking out the window and thinking about a kid whose name isn’t Jeffrey.

By the time October is drawing to a close, Axl finds himself sleeping on the streets of New Orleans. Sometime within the past couple months, he’s backtracked south-east, hitchhiking his way right down to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico.

Louisiana isn’t so bad - the people are lively, the culture is vibrant, and it’s warm enough that he can get by with just a jacket and jeans most of the time, but it’s miserable when it rains. He still wakes up feeling three years older with each night that goes by.

He spends most of his days wandering around on the streets, sitting with other homeless people, sometimes panhandling. He likes the poorer streets best, where the children are in the alleys playing soccer with half-deflated balls, the smell of grandmothers smoking on the steps in their slippers combining with fresh bread and the sound of barking dogs.

It’s been a fairly good day today. Axl has a bit of change rattling around in his pockets, and the sun is shining on his shoulders. The shelter five blocks west is serving soup tonight. He’s pretty sure they’ll have some left once the line of older men and children dies down.

It’s nearing 5 P.M. by the time he’s drifting down one of the more populated streets, watching the people pass - the women in their knee-length dresses or flowy pants, smart little heels clicking down the sidewalk, the men with their tight trousers and snazzy shirtcollars, all with families and friends and places to be.

He feels a bit aimless.

Back in Indiana, it would be about six o’clock right now. He imagines his mom serving dinner for the kids, bustling around the kitchen and chiding them to eat their string beans, the quiet clatter of knives and forks as they sit around the table.

For a second, the memory makes him feel better. Then the warm feeling dissipates, leaving his tired legs and the grumble of his stomach feeling even worse than before.

Axl wonders if his chair is still sitting empty at the dinner table. He wonders if the kids have asked about him, or what his mom told them, or if she’s just happy they have one less mouth to feed.

It strikes Axl that these couple thousand miles are the farthest he’s ever traveled from home, much less alone.

It suddenly feels very far indeed.

Once it gets dark, he finds a nondescript building with a wide staircase and decides to hunker down beside the steps for the night. The concrete is dirty and offers barely any shelter, but it’s enough for Axl that he’s out of the direct path of the occasional homeless man or hooker drifting past. He drifts off to sleep, tucked away from the glow of the streetlamp not ten feet away.

When Axl wakes, at first he isn’t quite sure why his heart is hammering in his chest. It takes him a second to orient himself, shaking off sleep with wide eyes as the sounds of a struggle reach his ears; a choked off cry, a skuffle, a shoe skidding across the sidewalk. He holds his breath as he peers around the corner.

Axl can’t fully make out what’s happening right away, but even in the poor lighting, the sight of two figures struggling under the lamppost immediately makes his pulse leap into his throat.

“—bitch!” grunts a low voice. There’s another moment of two of frustrated scuffling and then the sound of a fist slamming home, accompanied by a pained cry. One of the figures - a tall, broad man with thick arms - stumbles backwards, gasping.

Axl catches the barest glimpse of high-heeled shoe as a kick follows suit. The other figure - a tall, skinny-looking woman - doesn’t stop her assault until the man is running, arms coming up to protect his head as he flees pathetically down the street.

“Yeah, that’s right, shitfuck! I’ll fuck you the fuck up, bitch!”

Axl blinks, taken aback by the low, rough-sounding register of the voice. He watches with wide eyes as the person hobbles towards where he had been sleeping, stopping a scarce two feet away to bend down and pick up a red stiletto heel that had been knocked aside in the struggle.

“What’cha lookin’ at, kid?”

Axl startles, eyes flicking up from where he had been watching one stocking-clad foot slipping into the shoe. The face above him is cloaked in shadow, but he can vaguely discern a suspicious expression and two dark eyes staring right back at him. Not much older than him, but definitely masculine.

“I— I was just sleepin’,” Axl manages, and then despite himself, “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause, then an unamused huff of laughter. “Oh, I’m doing fine and dandy, pipsqueak. Thanks for the help.”

Axl’s mouth goes dry. “I— I’m sorry.“

The boy waves a hand, and this time Axl catches a glint of white teeth in the darkness. “Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it, baby. I can take care of myself.”

To his surprise, the guy takes a few more steps towards him promptly sits down to his left, long legs sprawling unceremoniously out on the dirty sidewalk. “You mind?”

Axl shakes his head.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a light?”

Axl shakes his head again. The guy sighs. “Figures. Night’s almost over an’ I’ve barely made enough for a day’s worth of food.”

“There’s the soup kitchen just a little ways East,” Axl suggests quietly. “They— I’ve been goin’ there.”

“Yeah,” the boy grunts in acknowledgement. “They don’t exactly like us hanging around over there much, though.” At Axl’s blank look, he adds, “Y’know, the daily mail. Crossdressers. Ass-peddlers, whatever you wanna call it.”

Axl’s eyebrows raise marginally, and he averts his eyes. “Oh.”

There’s a moment of silence. A car whizzes by, fading into the shadows as quickly as it came.

“I’m Nikki, by the way,” the boy offers.

“Axl.”

“You ‘round here much?”

“No, I’m— I’m not from here. Just passin’ through, I guess.”

Nikki shoots him a smirk. “Lost the address to the hotel?”

Axl scowls. “Fuck off.”

“Hey, man, we’ve all been there.”

They sit in silence for a moment longer before Nikki asks, “Wanna blowjob?”

Axl nearly startles. “What?”

“Blowjob,” Nikki repeats, rolling his eyes and raising his first to make a lewd gesture while poking his tongue into his cheek. “Ten bucks.” He narrows his eyes, giving Axl a once-over - “But maybe I could give you a discount, seeing as you seem pretty down on your luck and all.”

“I— _No,_” Axl says, aghast.

Nikki laughs, teeth flashing. “Suit yourself.”

Nikki takes him home that night.

He doesn’t offer much explanation, just gets to his feet and holds out a hand, says, “Follow me.”

Axl does. They walk a couple blocks away, to the second floor of an abandoned building with exposed concrete walls and little bits of glass and plastic lying around on the floor. It smells like mildew.

“T-Bone!” Nikki calls out as he lumbers his way up the stairs, heels thudding against each step. “Honey, I’m home!”

There’s a thump from inside the room, and then the quick patter of approaching footsteps. Axl maintains a careful distance, using Nikki as a barrier between himself and the open doorway.

“What’s up? You’re late, did you do okay? Did that one guy— Oh.” Suddenly, there’s a pair of eyes peering down at Axl over Nikki’s shoulder, dark and inquisitive beneath the shadow of a messy black fringe. “Who’s the kid?”

Nikki shifts aside, catching Axl by the shoulder and nudging him forward. “Tommy, meet Axl. Axl, meet Tommy. He’s gonna crash with us for a bit.”

In full view, Tommy is a little taller than Nikki, but thin and sharp like a scarecrow. His face is classically handsome, with thick brows and pronounced cheekbones - in a parallel universe and with a few square meals, he could have easily walked off the front page of a magazine.

“Oh,” Tommy says. “Is he, uh… Workin’?”

Nikki shakes his head before Axl can respond. “Nah, he’s just passing through. He looked so lost out there, I thought I’d let him kick it with us.” He turns back to Axl with a smirk. “Right, kid?”

“Y-yeah,” Axl manages, gaze flicking between the two of them before settling on Tommy. He licks his lips. “Uh, pleased to meet you.”

Tommy’s lips quirk in amusement, evidently entertained at the stiff display of formality. “Likewise,” he plays along, holding out a hand to shake.

“If you’re gonna stay, you have to help get food,” Nikki tells him over a shared bowl of instant noodles as the sun is starting to come up. “That’s the rule. Me ‘n Tommy share everything we get, but it’s already hard enough to get by with just the two of us. So if you wanna stay, you gotta pitch in.”

“Okay,” Axl agrees without hesitation.

November passes. Axl learns to be light on his feet and sticky with his fingers. He panhandles during the day, does the odd job if anything’s available, and makes friends with a Chinese girl at a pizza shop five blocks away who starts giving him assorted leftovers at the end of the night.

“My boss will kill me if he finds out,” she says, their hands brushing as she hands the box over. It’s still warm, grease seeping through the cardboard, and Axl feels his mouth water. He looks into the deep brown of her eyes and mumbles out his gratitude.

“Yeah, sure,” she sighs, “You’re welcome. Just go on now, okay? He doesn’t like us to hand out food, he thinks the wrong people will start hanging around.”

One day, a month or so later, she’s not there. Someone else starts closing the store every night. He spits and tells Axl to get lost.

Back to the shelter. Back to stolen cans of tuna fish. Back to Tommy and Nikki. They give him a place to stay, they teach him to get by, and he reports dutifully back every night. The two of them usually go out working on alternating nights, but the times when they’re both out are cold and miserable.

It’s rare — very rare — that they both stay home. Those are the nights when they’ll go to bed early, huddling up in the blankets and talking together while Axl reads or goes out or does something else, trying to give them a little privacy.

He tries not to look, not wanting to pry. But they’re… Close. Closer than men should be, he thinks; plastered together until he can’t tell whose hair belongs to who, moving softly and murmuring all the while.

He and Tommy are alone when he finds the balls to ask. It’s maybe eight or nine in the morning and they’re sitting together, waiting for Nikki to come home. Tommy’s been telling him stories, like he always does, and Axl’s been trying to figure out how to string his words together.

There’s a pause in conversation where Tommy stops to light a cigarette. “What’s eatin’ ya, kid?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got that little frown on,” Tommy grins, extending a finger to poke him right between the eyebrows. “What’s up?”

Axl pushes him away and opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I just…” he starts. He hesitates again. “Are you n’ Nikki... together?”

Tommy just looks at him for a second. He shrugs, unbothered, but his expression seems to dim a little. “Oh,” he says. “No, we—… No. It’s not like that. Not really.” He takes another deep drag and blows the smoke out of his nose, then sighs and stubs it out on the floor. There's a long, halting pause. “You gotta understand... When you live the way we do, you have to have somebody.”

Axl nods after a second, looks away. He figures that’s as good of an answer as any.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, kid,” Tommy says softly, reaching out to tug the hair at the nape of his neck. “Nikki’ll be back in an hour, ‘n then we can all go find breakfast before he goes to bed.”

New Year’s comes, and 1979 is cast aside without so much as a faint whimper. Axl isn’t sad to see it go.

Nikki’s out working when the ball drops, but Tommy is by Axl’s side, the two of them huddling for warmth on the mattress in the corner as the radio countdown cuts in and out.

“You gonna make a wish?” Tommy asks during a bout of static. He’s taller than Axl by a good three or four inches, but right now he looks twig-thin and small where his legs are tucked up to his chest beneath the dirty blankets.

“Yeah,” Axl finally says, because he thinks that’s probably what someone like Tommy wants to hear.

The radio ends up cutting out just as the announcer reaches _six, five, four—_ but it doesn’t matter. Axl doesn’t see the need to hope for anything anymore, anyways. He just watches Tommy murmur the words _three, two, one, Happy New Year_ in the crushing silence, watches the other boy’s eyes drop closed as he solemnly formulates his wish, eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks a painted seraph.

The radio cuts back in a few seconds later, and Tommy’s eyes flick open again.

_“—to ring in nineteen-eighty, folks!”_

Axl lets Tommy kiss him, then, because he thinks that’s probably what someone like Tommy needs. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

He stays for a while, all things considered.

It’s March by the time Axl is on his own again. He doesn’t tell Nikki and Tommy he’s leaving, because he doesn’t have to - they know before he does.

There’s not much ceremony involved. Axl doesn’t really have any belongings to pack up, so Tommy gives him a Caravelle candy bar and a kiss on the cheek. He puts the former in his pocket for later, and since Nikki is on his way out for the night, Axl walks with him four blocks away where he stops at his street corner.

They stands there for a second, Axl looking down at his own dirty sneakers juxtaposed against the pointed toes of Nikki’s high-heeled boots.

“Y’know, you’re gonna make it,” Nikki says, “I know you will.” Axl raises his eyes and looks at him for a second, dubious. “I mean it, kid. You’re not...” Nikki waves a hand, “I dunno. You’re just not like how we are, me n’ Tommy. You’re not as tired. I think you’re still angry enough to go do something with yourself.”

There’s a pause. A car honks somewhere nearby. “I don’t really want to go,” Axl finally says. He’s never really been all that good at goodbyes; usually, the words never seem to stop, but right now he’s at a loss for a way to even make himself say a simple ‘thank you’.

“Yeah, I know,” Nikki sighs before Axl can open his mouth, reaching around to grab the pack of smokes out of his back pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, then snags something else out of the carton and pushes it into Axl’s hand. “But you gotta. Look, kid. I don’t know how far this’ll take you, but it’s enough to get out of dodge. Just go, alright? There’s a bus station a few blocks that way if you turn around that corner,” he points down the street to their left.

Axl stares down at the worn edges of the folded twenty-dollar bill nestled between his fingers and shakes his head. “Nikki, hey, I can’t take this. That’s— I can’t take this, man. It’s too much, I don't—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nikki interrupts him. “Calm down, alright? It’s mine, not mine and Tommy’s. It was… I dunno, birthday money, or something. Just never had a use for it until now.” He shrugs, uncomfortable, and looks away as he replaces the box in his pocket and grabs his lighter. 

Axl blinks down at the money, then back up at Nikki. “I don’t…”

Nikki huffs a little sigh and pulls him in for a hug, cutting Axl off. His eyes are hidden in shadow when he pulls back and says, “Scram, okay? It’s time for you to go. I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

Axl nods mutely. Nikki cuffs him lightly on the shoulder, and then he finally lets his feet carry him down the darkened sidewalk.

Just before he turns the corner of the next building, Axl looks back and sees Nikki standing by the light post, shivering in his tiny leather hot pants and cutoff shirt as he lights a cigarette.

They meet eyes one last time and Nikki lifts a gloved hand in a jaunty wave. His mouth quirks up into a grin around the fag between his blood-red lips, sharp white teeth on display, and then Axl turns the corner.

He never sees Nikki again.

Axl takes the bus on the first out-of-state ticket available that night, rides it to the edge of Louisiana, grabs a transfer and gets off somewhere in Texas the next afternoon with an ache in his bones.

Time goes. So does everything else.

He begins an exhausting period of hitchhiking spanning the next two months, making his way East one car ride at a time, a few hours or a few days or however long people will let him tag along. The weeks blend together into a messy swirl of strangers, gas stations and uncomfortable benches - finding food where he can get it along the way, but usually ending the day with the hollow pit of hunger in his stomach. He has no set travel plan, so he ends up slowly working his way towards the Pacific coast in a convoluted path of switchbacks and detours. It doesn’t bother him, though. Even this is still better than Indiana.

At one point he gets picked up by a couple of guys with long hair, headbands and fringed jackets - evident remainders of the Free Love era gone by - and he travels with them in a van for four days as they meander through Arizona at a downright glacial pace.

Axl mainly keeps to himself. Though it becomes apparent that Sebastian and Rachel are easygoing potheads at heart, they’re also young and brash and boundlessly energetic, wrapped up in each other in a way that leaves no room for anything else. Axl gets into the habit of accepting the pot and LSD they’re kind enough to share, takes his turn in the driver’s seat when they ask, and wanders off for an hour or so unprompted whenever they pull the van over and start giving each other bedroom eyes.

Sebastian and Rachel‘s displays of affection are strange and uncharted territory for him. They’re different than Nikki and Tommy, primarily in the way that their relationship runs parallel to the model of boyfriend-and-girlfriend he’s always grown up with, yet simultaneously incongruous; even with chest-length hair, there’s no mistaking either of them for a woman. There’s a certain kind of sheer unfamiliarity in waking up to see them curled together in the back of the van, or laughing and casually trading kisses while Sebastian keeps one hand on the wheel in a vague consideration to not run them off the road.

There’s curiosity, too.

He still thinks of Izzy.

Seattle. Late May. 1980.

No place to go.

_How did he get here?_

Axl is outside of the back entrance to some club, trying to catch the faint sound of the bands playing inside as he sits to the right of the garbage cans with his knees tucked up to his chest. It’s maybe a little under fifty degrees out - warm enough that he’ll tough it out, cold enough to make him shiver. Occasionally he’ll hear people pass by the front of the venue, yelling, footsteps falling into the echo of the alleyway before fading away once more.

Axl sits there for an hour or two. He doesn’t feel himself drift off, but the next thing he knows, there’s a loud _crack_ and an exclamation, a blinding pain and his arms reflexively coming up to clutch his head, looking up in confusion from the dirty pavement to see a surprised face swimming above him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, pained and confused.

“—you alright, man? Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you in front of the door, I don’t—…”

The voice trails off as the guy watches Axl haul himself to his feet, stumbling a bit and pulling his hand away from his head. It comes away with a sticky smear across his palm.

“The fuck,” he repeats flatly.

“That doesn’t look too good,” the boy says, extending a hand, but Axl merely turns to affix his offender with a poisonous glower.

“No shit, Sherlock. You just beaned me with a fuckin’ metal door.”

The guy withdraws his arm, looking uncertain. Upon closer inspection, he must be around the same age as Axl himself - maybe a little younger - but much taller, with long, scarecrow-skinny legs and a mop of grungy blue hair that’s gone flat on one side. His eyes are ringed in dark makeup, but despite the edgy look, there’s a gentle set to his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” the boy repeats. “You were lying in front of the door, man, I didn’t mean to—...”

“Whatever,” Axl cuts him off flatly.

The guy looks confused. “What are you doing here, anyways? Did you get locked out?”

Axl shifts on his feet. “Yeah,” he lies.

“Are you—“

Before the boy can finish his sentence, the door flies open again, and a chubby-looking girl in a ripped up black t-shirt leans out with narrowed eyes. “Duff! Two-minute warning, hurry the fuck up.”

The guy - _Duff?_ \- makes a vague gesture towards Axl. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, just came out for a smoke and then—“”

The girl looks between them, then rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I don’t care, just get your ass in there.” She turns her attention on Axl. “And who are you?”

Axl doesn’t say anything.

“He got locked out,” Duff offers.

The girl’s scowl deepens, gaze not wavering where she’s locked onto Axl. “You must be that guy who went MIA, then. Steve. Your whole band has been looking for you for the past half hour, and they’re derailing the whole night. Thanks loads.” She flips him off with a fast, casual flick of her wrist. “Duff, c’mon. If this show goes well, we’ll be into the finals.”

The tall kid glances at Axl again, flashing him an awkward expression that could maybe pass as half of an apologetic smile. “C’mon, let’s go. You heard her, uh— Steve, was it?

Axl blinks. “I’m not—” he starts, but Duff is already reentering the building, a gust of rank-smelling air filtering out as he holds the door open expectantly behind him.

It’s _warm._

Against his better judgement, Axl follows.

Turns out Duff plays drums in a punk band.

Axl only feels a little bad when the scrawny little MC with the eyebrow ring comes out onstage after their set, squinting out into the crowd and says, “Anybody seen a guy named Steve? His band’s on in five, if he doesn’t show we’re scrapping the set and extending Nailpin’s time.”

Predictably, the audience jeers. The MC flips them all off and saunters back off into the wings, the real Steve still nowhere to be found.

Axl crosses his arms over his chest and casts a glance around at the crowd around him, the mohawks and leather jackets and piercings glinting through the haze of smoke. He’s not standing alone for long before a tall, gangly figure cuts through the crowd towards him.

Duff looks amused as he comes to stand beside Axl. “So,” he starts, tone intrigued and with a good-humoured tilt to his mouth. “Either you’re not actually Steve, or you must be some special kind of self-sabotaging dick to ditch your band like that.”

Axl obstinately refuses to look up in order to answer him, so instead he fixes his gaze on Duff’s collarbones and says, “Well, it’s a lot warmer inside the building than it is out there.”

They’re nice collarbones, he thinks to himself; defined, almost delicate, with a crude necklace made from a chain and a gold padlock resting over his sternum like Axl has seen some of the other punks wearing.

Duff laughs. “So you really were just sleeping out there?”

Axl shrugs, a spark of defensive anger prickling at his spine. “Not like I had anywhere else to be.”

“Hey, fair point,” Duff replies, ducking his head with a grin. “Not my place to judge.” Axl notices a streak of blue along the side of his jaw from where his sweat has mixed with the cheap hair dye, sliding down his skin and following the line of his neck. “So, you find yourself around here often?”

Axl licks his lips and tucks his arms closer to himself. “Sorta just got into town.”

“Where from?”

Axl pauses, thinks. “New Orleans,” he decides.

“Really?” Duff’s eyebrows raise. “Huh. Long fuckin’ drive.”

“You could say that.”

“So you’re bumming around?”

“I guess.”

Duff’s lips twitch. He coughs a few times and raises one hand to scratch at the back of his neck, nodding sheepishly. “Me too, kind of,” he says. “But, um. If you don’t have anywhere to go, there’s a house around here,” he offers, “Just a few blocks over, really. There are a bunch of us that stay there. Mostly the queer punks, I guess, but some of the riff-raff and whoever else.” He shugs self-consciously. “I mean, it’s not nice, but it’s a roof.”

“Oh,” Axl says.

“Y’know, just. If you need somewhere.”

“I ain’t a queer,” Axl tells him.

Duff’s responding grin is amused. “Okay,” he repeats, unbothered. “Um, I’m gonna go help pack up before Kim yells at me. If you make up your mind…”

Axl doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll be around,” he says, carefully neutral.

They filter out of the club around two in the morning, alongside the last of the other stumbling musicians. It’s Duff and the girl from before, plus Axl and one other short, stocky-looking guy with bleached liberty spikes and a nose that’s clearly been broken more than a few times.

True to Duff’s word, the house is only a few streets over; it’s dark and broken down, situated between other houses in similar states of disrepair. The roof is slumped into itself, looming ominously over the porch and the black-painted windows on either side of the door that’s been spray painted with a big pink triangle.

The house appears menacing in its constitution, but the short guy and the girl - Kim, as Axl comes to know her - are laughing as they bound up the steps and let themselves in, doorway yawning like a gaping mouth behind them.

“So, this is it,” Duff says as he and Axl follow close behind. “Um, we call it the Fag House. Everyone kinda fends for themselves, but we pitch in and share food sometimes.”

Axl nods. He says nothing.

Inside, the place is dark, the peeling walls painted with the shadows of people moving about. Axl catches a glimpse of a lantern in the kitchen, as well as a fire burning inside a garbage can in one of the other rooms as they move past, but no real light sources.

“You’re free to crash wherever,” Duff says to Axl over his shoulder. “We all share mattresses and blankets, so I’d suggest you take what you can find.” He points to the doorway to their right. “Um, I’ll be in this room here, if you want to stick with me. Otherwise, just make yourself at home.”

Axl nods again. “Okay.”

Duff pauses, mouth sloping into a smile. “You don’t say much, do you?”

Axl shrugs. He thinks back to Tommy and Nikki; he thinks of the hours upon hours they would all spend talking from night until morning, the way they would listen and let him ramble and trail off and switch topics until his throat was sore. He settles on a simple, halfway-insolent reply of “Depends who I’m with.”

The remark merely earns a laugh in return. “Sure, princess.” Duff’s eyes glint in the dark as he cocks his head. “What’s your name, anyways?”

Axl finds Duff isn’t bad to talk to, as long as you can get past the initial annoyance of how he coughs non-stop all night and keeps everyone awake.

“Asthma,” Duff tells him meekly the next morning. “Sorry. The mold has been making it act up worse lately.”

Axl grunts and rubs his eye in tired assent.

As far as Axl can tell, nobody in the house really seems to adhere to any sort of schedule - the daily life seems to revolve around sleeping all day, scrounging up a meal and whichever show is being played where that night.

He gets to know a few of the other tenants - such as Anthony, who likes to shoot up with heroin in the kitchen, and Dave, who has a motorbike - but people tend to keep to themselves, and in turn, Axl leaves them alone as well.

“Don’t the pigs ever bother you?” Axl asks Duff one afternoon while they’re sitting on the crumbling porch, smoking. “For taxes. Or drugs, or whatever.”

Duff shrugs. “Sometimes.” He takes a drag off the cigarette, then passes it to Axl. “Not too often. Just if they’re in a really shitty mood, I guess. Those fucks probably have bigger problems to deal with than a bunch of homeless squatters.” He breaks off into a fit of coughing.

“Right,” Axl says, exhaling smoke. They’re quiet for a moment. He rubs his nose and passes the fag back to Duff, watching a boy on a bicycle fly past on the other side of the street.

“Do you have a family?” he finally asks.

Duff nods and clears his throat. “Yeah. Big one, actually. Seven older brothers and sisters.”

“Oh.” Axl pauses. “Do you ever miss ‘em?”

An easy shrug. “Sometimes, I guess,” Duff’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “Things weren’t always good, but…” He blows out smoke, looking up to the sky. “Not much to do about it now, I guess.”

Axl nods.

“What about you, then?” Duff turns the question around. “You ever miss your family?”

“I— No,” Axl shakes his head, “No. Not really.”

There’s a pause before Duff quietly asks, “Bad situation?”

Axl hesitates to respond. “I guess,” he finally relents. “I just— I had to leave. ‘M from Indiana, so… Anywhere seemed better than there.”

Duff’s gaze is contemplative as they meet eyes. “And is it?”

“Maybe,” Axl shrugs again. “Some days, I still don’t feel far enough away.”

“Yeah,” Duff nods, taking one last drag and stubbing the cigarette out on the wooden porch. “I get that. I’m from around these parts, myself. Different neighbourhood lately, but... I’ve never really left the city.”

”Right,” Axl raises an eyebrow, looking away to fix his gaze on a chunk of concrete lying near his left toe. “And it doesn’t tempt you to get out?” 

“Out?” Duff echoes.

“Yeah,” Axl shrugs one shoulder, looking over at him with a solemn gaze. “Just— Out. Gone. Away. Don’t you ever worry about bein’ here, doin’ this for the rest of your life?”

Duff takes a second to shake his head. He smiles, teeth on display, says, “Not me, man. I’m gonna rule the world. Bigger than Johnny fuckin’ Thunders. You’ll see.”

The cough gets worse. A month and a half after that, Duff starts vomiting and drops into a fever.

He dies in his sleep within the next two days. When Axl wakes up the next morning, everyone’s standing around the body deciding what to do.

It’s late summer again by now, and Axl stuffs his last five dollars into his boot and sets out for California. His last glimpse of Duff is a tuft of blue hair sticking out from beneath the stained sheet someone has draped over his face.

It’s devastating.

Every time, it is devastating.

Los Angeles: City of Angels, City of Misfits, City of Hollywood and Homeless Kids, City of Broken Noses.

The men get too close. For the first time, Axl doesn’t always stop them. A thousand miles is a long way to hitchhike, after all.

His arrival is far from grandiose, but he’ll be damned if it’s not a thrill to walk down Sunset Boulevard that first night. It almost feels as though the city has been here the whole time, waiting for him: a prodigal son stepping foot on her dirty pavement for the first time.

Axl fits in with the squalor. Embraces it. Sleeps on the street, begs for food, watches the freaks pass by. His hair has gotten long over the past year, with no lingering trace of the stubborn poof it used to carry - what little bangs he once had have long since grown out into greasy tendrils that lie flat against his cheeks, the rest a tangled mess.

He meets Steven on his fourth day in the city, when he wanders into a skate park. Axl ends up watching the kid eat dirt for fifteen minutes before he finally comes over to introduce himself - “Hey, dude! I’m Steven. You skate?”

He’s exactly what you’d imagine from a teenage boy in California: a quintessentially easygoing, pot-smoking peroxide blond with an affinity for skateboarding despite his apparent lack of talent.

Axl offers his name and a blunt _No._

“Oh,” Steven replies. “Well, you wanna try? My board’s not very good, but y’know. If you want. It’s pretty dead around here.” He shrugs a shoulder to indicate the otherwise-desolate bowl in all its graffitied concrete glory.

“No thanks.”

“Okay,” Steven agrees easily, then plops himself down in the dry grass beside Axl, so close their knees knock. “So who are you, anyways?” he asks, squinting. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“‘M not from here.”

“Visiting?”

Axl shrugs, resisting the urge to shift away. “Guess so.”

“Well, where are you staying?” Steven insists brightly. “I’m just up the road, couple’a blocks that way,” he continues, pointing vaguely off into the distance.

For a second, Axl just looks at him. Then he says, “I‘m not really stayin’ anywhere.”

“Oh,” Steven says, brows furrowing. “Well, that’s— that’s alright. It’ll be getting dark soon, though, and it’s not too safe around here.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. A gust of wind drifts by, “You could come crash over at my house,” Steven says. “If you want. I have a spare mattress. I have brothers, but they’re fine. And my mom makes great latkes.”

“I’m okay,” Axl says. “I dunno if—“

“Oh c’mon, man,” Steven protests with newfound conviction, jovially knocking him in the arm. “You’re skinny as a fuckin’ twig, it’ll make my mom happy if you let her feed you. And besides,” he adds, “no offence, but you could probably use a shower.”

A half hour later, Axl finds himself standing in the kitchen of a modest bungalow, stiffly observing the orange cabinets and tiled walls. Steven’s mother is busy at the stove, idly swatting Steven away as he tries to snatch a slice of red pepper from the cutting board to her side.

“Stevie tells me you’ll be joining us for dinner, Axl?” she addresses him, only briefly turning to catch his eye before resuming her task.

“Uh, yes ma’am. If that’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright,” she says firmly. “Why don’t you go ahead and wash up before dinner, honey? I can wash your clothes while you’re at it. I’m sure Steven has something you can borrow.”

“Oh,” Axl fidgets. “It’s really okay, ma’am, I can—“

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Adler cuts him off with a shake of her head, the brown curls of her sensible updo bouncing. “Steven, show Axl the bathroom, would you? And get him some pyjamas.”

He does. They’re blue-and-white striped, button-down, soft from years of washing and hanging just a little too big on Axl’s newly-gaunt frame. The neck gapes open over his collar bones, but he refuses to do up the top button.

It’s the most comfortable he’s been in a while, sitting cross-legged on a spare mattress beside Steven’s bed, brightly-coloured blankets pooling in his lap, and yet he the need to crawl out of his skin feels stronger than ever.

“You good?” Steven asks as he pads back into the room, nudging the door shut behind him.

“Yeah,” Axl says, watching him make his way over to the bed and crawl beneath the covers.

The bed squeaks as he shifts around, pulling his blankets into place before settling in. He eyes Axl warily across the pillow. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like…”

Under Steven’s gaze, Axl hugs his arms tighter to himself. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t want to be here,” Steven finishes.

“I don’t,” Axl says.

“Oh.”

“It’s not personal. It’s just…”

“Yeah. I know.”

Silence.

“So where do you want to be, then?”

Axl takes a second to think. “Anywhere,” he replies. “Or maybe nowhere. Just… Wherever I ain’t.”

Steven huffs a breath and shifts onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. “Sounds pretty shitty.”

Axl doesn’t respond. He flops onto his back and then rolls onto his side away from Steven, tucking his legs up and pulling the blankets to his chin.

“Well, goodnight then,” Steven says quietly.

“G’night.”

The alarm clock reads 6:32 when Axl gets up, quietly folds his blankets and slips out of the room, Steven breathing evenly as the door clicks softly shut. The carpet in the hallway muffles the sound of his footsteps as he makes his way back to the kitchen and living room, younger versions of the Adler family watching from their framed photographs.

Clothes. Where did she put his clothes?

He’s in the middle of checking all the doors in hopes of finding a laundry room when he hears a voice from the mouth of the hall — “That you, Axl? Everything alright?”

He turns to find Mrs. Adler standing there, silhouetted in the early morning light. “Fine, ma’am. Just, um. Tryin’ to find my clothes.”

“Oh sure. I just took them off the line, they’re waiting for you in the kitchen.” Axl nods, uncomfortable smile feeling frozen on his face. “You want some breakfast? Coffee? The boys won’t be up for another couple of hours yet.”

Axl hesitates. “I… Sure, Mrs. Adler. Yes please.”

So she puts a record on. She waters the plants in the windowsill. She makes eggs. She passes him the salt and pepper and calls him _honey_ and Axl feels his heart break a little more.

“You were looking to pull a runner on us, weren’t you?” she asks, raising her mug to her lips as she watches him across the table.

Axl shrugs. He sees no point denying it. “Just don’t like bein’ a burden,” he mumbles, scraping the plate with his fork.

Mrs. Adler shakes her head. “Don’t you start with that,” she tells him, tone sharp. “I know my Stevie likes to bring home strays, but you’re welcome here as long as you need.”

Axl swallows around the lump in his throat and says, “I can’t.”

Mrs. Adler nods. “Okay,” she says, “I understand. But the least I can do is make you a sandwich to take with you. And don’t you dare slip out without having the manners to say goodbye, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

It’s a good sandwich. Almost good enough to make him turn around and walk right back into the arms of a mother he met less than twenty-four hours ago and feels more kinship with than he ever did his own.

Slash comes two weeks later. A whirlwind, a daredevil, hell on the wheels of a trick bike. The first words he says to Axl are, “‘Sup, shortcake?”

“Fuck off,” Axl says, peering up at him from the bus stop bench with narrowed eyes.

His features are partially obscured by the darkness, but under the streetlight, Axl can make out a handsome face and dark eyes, a big halo of curly hair sticking out three inches in every direction. “You know the bus doesn't come to this stop anymore, right?” he says, grinning like he’s just been told a joke.

“Sure,” Axl shrugs. Not like he’d have had money for fare in the first place.

Slash, as Axl will come to know him, just leans forward on his handlebars. “You wanna ride, then?”

“From you?”

“Yeah, why not? Where’re you headed, anyways?”

“Dunno,” Axl tells him point-blank.

Slash nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “You a drifter?”

“Somethin' like that.”

“New to LA?”

“Few weeks, I guess. Came in from Seattle.”

Slash’s brows lift, impressed. “Long trip.”

Axl shrugs, swallowing down a little shred of foolish pride. “I was in New Orleans before that,” he offers.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a long fuckin’ trip,” Slash nods approvingly. “Damn.” He crosses his arms and sits back in his seat, keeps his feet grounded as he rolls himself back and forth a little on the spot. “So what’s your name?”

“Does it matter?”

He gets a shrug and a laugh in return. “Guess not. But I’m Slash, if you wanna know.”

“Axl.”

Slash looks at him for a moment, considering. “Okay, Axl,” he says, “Why don’t you hop on and I can take you somewhere a little nicer?”

It’s only ten minutes later, coaxed into perching on Slash’s handlebars with the potholes rumbling below, that Axl twists his head to ask, “Where are we going?”

Slash laughs and takes a turn. “Home,” he says, as if it's obvious.

Rhythm.

Sleep until noon, find something to eat, read a book and wait for Slash to get home from work. Talk and listen to records while Slash feeds his pets. Smoke pot together until he can't feel his face. Pass out. Repeat.

They steal booze and borrow cars on the weekends, drinking and smoking and driving out to the desert as they watch the dust dissipate behind them. The telephone wires crackle overhead, drooping in the midday sun.

For once, Axl isn't running. He can't. The world is too still, the air too heavy, the sand seeping into his skin until he’s stuck.

“Are there snakes out here?” Axl asks the first time.

“Yeah,” Slash says slowly, “_Crotalus oreganus_. Rattlers.”

He licks his dry lips. Axl watches. They're lying on the cracked earth, plastered flat out with heads spinning as if held in place by centrifugal force. 

Stuck.

“But they’re not that bad, anyways,” Slash continues. “They’re more scared than angry. They're not too dangerous, as long as you're careful.”

“Unless you get bit,” Axl grins, one side of his mouth tugging up like he can't help it.

Slash coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, then you start being eaten from the inside out. I heard that sometimes it can take a couple days before you die.”

Axl smiles wider and reaches out, grabs his hand, finds Slash’s palm hot and dry against his.

The sun beats down.

They fuck, because maybe there's nothing else to do.

Axl doesn't resist when Slash kisses him a week later. He doesn't protest when Slash backs him up against the bedroom wall, fingers sliding over his stomach under the hem of his shirt. He doesn't push away when they end up naked and sweaty on the bed with Slash sucking hickeys onto the skin of his neck, biting back a hunger that's almost painful, both of them breathing hard.

Axl doesn't say no. He twists his head to the side and rolls his hips, feels Slash’s hair against his cheek; he stares at the wall, at the posters, sees Joe Perry staring back at him. He gasps and groans and doesn’t say anything.

He doesn't say anything after, either. Slash says his name so gently, rubs his shoulder so warmly, but Axl just shrugs and turns away. He wanted this; he just doesn't know why it feels so dirty.

Slash loses his job that week. He tells Axl when he walks in the door, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the bed.

Axl asks him what he's going to do. Quietly, because a part of him is scared that Slash is angry; that he should keep his distance. Just in case.

There's a pause before he receives a shrug in return. “Find a new place, I guess,” Slash says. “I think the gas station is hiring, or maybe the pet store.” He picks at a callus for a second, then turns to meets Axl’s eyes with a smile. “Don't worry ‘bout it, ‘kay? I’ll take care of us. I can still do that.”

Axl can't pinpoint where along the way the _Us_ part happened.

The next weekend they go back out to the desert and drop acid. They fuck then, too, Axl bent over the hood of Slash’s friend’s car and seeing colours where there aren't any. His hands feel sticky against the hot metal. He meets the eyes of his reflection and holds his own gaze, feeling a calm settle over him.

Afterward, Slash kisses him. He laughs. He sets a blanket down on the ground and holds Axl close while they trip, listening to him talk on and on about all the people he lost, all the pieces of himself he left lying on Interstate 5.

When he’s done, Slash kisses him all over again.

He still thinks of Izzy.

Sometimes, Axl will lie awake in the dark, listening to the motor of Slash’s fish tank and wondering about the gas station. About his siblings. About Nikki and Tommy starving on the streets, or Sebastian and Rachel driving off into the sunset, or Mrs. Adler raising three rambunctious sons alone. About Duff rotting underground somewhere.

It’s easier to turn his head and see Slash there beside him, snoring softly with his mouth open. Quiet; peaceful. Axl finds himself smiling.

Tomorrow is a Saturday. That means they’ll sleep in late and wake up at eleven to slow, lazy morning sex, followed by breakfast at whatever fast food joint is cheapest and then a walk down to the beach. They won’t be able to afford to do much, but they’ll be content with wandering around and talking shit as the rollerskaters zip by. If it’s not busy, Slash will hold his hand.

Axl won’t think of Indiana once.

+

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr @[shotgunmessiahs](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com)! ♥️


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